Must Be Nice
by K9Lasko
Summary: An abstract, patchwork story that plays off of Season 10 themes. The team bounces back; the good and the bad and the ambiguous. COMPLETED.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **So the formatting DELETED the lines seperating the different sections. Just noticed this morning... so if you were having a HUH? moment, I totally understand. Anyway, welcome to my sleep-deprived, Nutter-Butter-fueled wild tangent of the Season X premiere. The episode was good, but it could have been better. By the way, I am not necessarily a "Tiva shipper." I just follow wherever I feel the characters are going

**Must Be Nice  
by K9LASKO  
**

I.

"It must've been nice," Tony says, "Must've been nice to have somebody to talk to."

Yeah. Must've been nice. Right? Must be _real_ nice.

And then he just stares at Gibbs. Stares and waits for an answer. No, not just an answer. An _affirmation_ because, damnit, it _must_ be nice. But Gibbs just stares right back, looks at Tony as if he's fallen off his rocker. It's confusion mixed with a bit of sadness. Pity.

The phone rings or something. Tony doesn't remember anymore.

* * *

The boss used to know everything. He used to be all seeing, too. Now he's just like everybody else, and Tony knows this, challenges it. The mystique de Gibbs has faded away long ago. Now the Boss was just a boss, just Leroy Jethro Gibbs, an old man driven by habit and circumstance and an insane drive to protect.

Tony doesn't know that Dr. Ryan or whoever ran off at the first waft of danger. Doesn't know that Gibbs hasn't spoken to her since that day.

What Tony does know is that Tony's doing something very bad. Very bad and very forbidden. He also knows it feels good, in a muted sort of way.

Must be nice, right?

His guilt is now a constant force.

* * *

Tony keeps himself company when he's not at work and when he's not at Ziva's. He stays home. He doesn't go out. He doesn't accept calls. He doesn't even open the blinds. He surrounds himself with DVD's, his laptop, his iPod, a Jenga tower, year old magazines. He looks around at the emptiness, _his _emptiness, and he smiles. It's painful and forced.

Nobody knocks on his door. He's thought of visiting Gibbs' house fifteen times in the span of two weeks, but he's only grabbed his keys three times, only opened the door twice, only driven the hour to the boss's neighborhood once.

* * *

Gibbs has been seeing a lot of faces in his basement.

Before he killed Dearing, he'd wanted to build another boat. He had measured and remeasured. He wanted something bigger and better than the last one, something that could withstand another Moby Dick, but not anymore. The urge has gone. Now he just spends his time staring at the empty space while whittling away a block of soft wood. Shavings drop to the concrete floor. Dust drifts into his quarter-filled glass of bourbon, sitting on the floor next to his chair leg. He doesn't mind the taste of wood. By now, he's probably got splinters stuck between his teeth.

He wants to think, needs to think. Gibbs has never minded being alone.

Although he thinks now…

Maybe it would be nice. DiNozzo said that it must be nice. So sure, it would be nice, Gibbs agrees. Would be nice to rehash the day's events to somebody who isn't himself, somebody who isn't sitting alone in a basement, whittling a piece of wood to nothing.

He thinks of Fornell, of Vance and of Ducky. Thinks of everybody and everything, even thinks of the piece of glass sticking out of McGee's belly.

It reminds him of what he did to Dearing, the way he'd stabbed and ripped and killed. So calm, so cold. How beautiful and justified it was. How fucking _good_ it felt to have hot blood on his hand, how it slid to his wrist. How _good_ it felt to tell Abs that Dearing would no longer be a problem, that she needn't lose anymore sleep.

He hears his front door snap shut. His hands still for a moment before the pads of his fingers start running over the wood, checking for imperfections. There are always imperfections. Always.

* * *

"Tobias?" He hears Gibbs call.

Tony almost pauses, almost turns around and leaves. Why had he come here anyway? What was he looking for?

An _affirmation_.

"No," Tony replies, voice unusually quiet and soft. Reserved. Shy. "Just me."

Guilty.

There is silence during which Tony gnaws on his own lip. He approaches the stairs, puts one foot in front of the other.

"Tony," Gibbs finally says. His voice is also soft. Tired. He is looking up from where he sits, blue eyes sharp as ever.

Tony hesitates. Tony never hesitates.

So Gibbs urges, "C'mon." He even gestures, with just one finger. Tony does as he's told, moves stiff-leggedly down the stairs, gingerly sets himself on the second to last step.

* * *

Ziva gets up at oh dark thirty, every day. She creeps around the room, dresses in sweats and a t-shirt. Pulls back her hair, splashes water on her face. Grabs her wallet, her cell phone, her keys. She never looks towards the bed.

Tony only stirs when the door clicks shut, when she locks the deadbolt from the outside. He watches her in the dark, every day, when she thinks he's still sound asleep under the comforter. They never speak in the morning, only at night. The morning is guilty; the night is often soaked in booze and stale cigarettes.

At work it's unusually quiet. McGee throws himself back into it all. He's avoiding his father. Tony also throws himself back into work. He plays Pac Man and Minesweeper and disjointed games of solitaire. Secretly, Tony wishes his father would call, just so he could choose to ignore the man. Choose to be ignored. Or something.

Ziva says nothing. They look at each other a lot, her and Tony. They start going out for lunch; they forget to invite anybody else.

* * *

Abby is a mess. She shies from her own shadow. She's paranoid and irritable. She leaves the music off, says she's detoxing from Caf-Pow. Tony worries about her. He sits with her more often now, watches her work, notices when she forgets to put her makeup on. Notices when she comes in wearing jeans and a v-neck tee and a white lab coat.

Somewhere things have gone wrong. Things have gone really wrong.

* * *

"So is it nice, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks. He leans back in his chair, spreads his legs comfortably, work boots tied loosely. He's got a strange smile on his face. It's unsettling.

"What's nice?" Tony asks on reflex.

Maybe the boss does know something. "It _must_ be nice," Gibbs insists. "Right?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **So, to the reviewer who said that I ought to warn people of the Tiva-tones in this story... the answer is no. If you are that vehemently against two people suggestively being together in that capacity, then the actual show must be painful to watch at times. And this is coming from a person who doesn't "ship" these two characters. At any rate, suggestion noted and appreciated, but not taken.

I actually did not mean for this to have another chapter, but I left that option open for myself. This one goes a little deeper into what's going on between Tony and Ziva, and also continues the conversation between Gibbs and Tony down in the basement. Some other stuff, too. Thanks everybody for the nice reviews and favorites and such. I really appreciate the feedback!

**Must Be Nice**  
**by K9LASKO**

II.

If Tony has to hear about Rule Number 12 one more time, he's going to blow a gasket. And for Tony, that's scary. Because when Tony gets angry, he gets _angry_.

It's just another "Gibbs rule." Like a slew of other Gibbs rules: "always be specific when you lie" or "never, ever involve a lawyer" or "your case, your lead."

The truth is, Rule 12 isn't unique to Gibbs at all. It's actually an all-purpose life rule, like "don't shit where you eat" or "don't piss where you drink" or "don't be a fucking idiot (again), Tony DiNozzo."

He doesn't want to hear it; he doesn't really even want to think about it.

So he doesn't. He didn't. He shows up every other night, every other two nights, every other whatever night. She keeps the porch light on, keeps the chain off the door.

Spread out in her bed, restless and weary, he licks his own wounds.

Rule 12 is bullshit.

* * *

Ducky is acting as old as ever. He limps around and leans on his cane. Tony jokes, says the old man's armed and dangerous now. They'd all better watch themselves.

"It appears," Ducky states with a wry grin, patting Tony on the chest like someone might pat a good and trusty horse, "that age catches up to us all, eventually."

* * *

The central air switches off, and Tony swallows convulsively. It's so quiet now in this basement that they can hear the faint buzzing of the bare light bulbs overhead.

There's a moth flying overhead, paper white wings flapping while it dodges up and down, doing circles around and around the bulb. It's drunken and blind.

Gibbs breaks the awkward quiet, "You're sleeping together, aren't you." He's not a man who embraces subtlety.

Tony shrugs, but he's staring at his boss hard. His boss and his friend. Gibbs could never tell when one should end in order for the other to begin. Gibbs was black and white and only three shades of gray.

* * *

"I hear you're okay, McGee," Tony says through a smile.

Tim opens his eyes, looks up at Tony from the hospital bed. He's groggy, sore, and miserable, but that's not bad considering the alternative. Tim knows there's plenty of severed body parts still trapped within the blast radius that would attest to that. He frowns before slurring at Tony's blurry form, "Hey. Tony. You're okay."

Tony leans a little closer. "Yep."

Tim thinks he might be drooling, but he can't tell. Damn cocktail of sedatives and painkillers. Just to be safe, he slowly swipes the back of his hand across the side of his mouth.

"There ya go, McDrool."

Tim frowns again. He hates to be made fun of. "Abby?"

"She's okay." Simple answer. "All of us are."

Okay. Tim sighs. Pretty sure he's drooling again, but right now he doesn't care. "Hear you were stuck," he swallows, "in the elevator with Ziva."

Tony smiles, the lines in the corners of his eyes deepen. "Hear you had a five inch shard of glass sticking out of you."

"Yeah. Well." Tim sighs again.

"Give it a few hours," Tony nudges his shoulder gently. "You'll be right as rain."

* * *

Gibbs knows there's something going on with his senior field agent and his junior agent. Knows the both of them have gotten closer. Too close.

They aren't stupid; they know how to hide it. Regardless, Gibbs knows how to spot it. He knows all the tricks.

He corners Ziva by the stairs, stares into her brown eyes. "Anything you want to tell me, Agent David?"

Ziva simply says no. Of course not.

She's not specific when she lies, and that pisses Gibbs off. It's one of his rules.

* * *

If forty-something year old Tony told thirty-something year old Tony that he had been sleeping with a woman but not really _sleeping_ with her, he would have laughed in his own face.

But that's how it was. He knows it's strange.

More than a few nights in, after Dearing was dead by Gibbs' hand, _things _changed.

* * *

Ziva smokes a cigarette on the lanai. She stares into the darkness, hugs her bare arms. She already knows he's standing behind her, leaning against the open doorway. Watching.

"I didn't know that you smoked," Tony says.

"I do not." She huffs, laughs without humor. "Shut the door. The moths are getting in."

Tony slides the screen door shut behind him.

She knocks the ashes from the end of the cigarette. "Why do you keep coming here?" She's still looking out into the night, still letting smoke escape from her nostrils.

"Why do you keep letting me in?" Tony counters.

Again, she laughs. She doesn't turn around. Not yet. "You take up my entire bed. You steal my sheets. You eat _all_ my food and leave dirty dishes in the sink." It is strange, but she can _hear_ him smirk.

"You don't like it?" he asks quietly.

Ziva takes another drag, stiffens her shoulders. "I did not know you were the type to hold out."

He answers quickly, voice hard, "I did not know you were the type to smoke."

Finally, she turns. Glares.

He says, "You know, sometimes I wish we were still stuck in that elevator."

Ziva narrows her eyes, tries to study his face.

He takes a step towards her, moves to snatch the cigarette from her hand. "Then nobody would be _watching_."

* * *

In the basement, Tony suddenly laughs. It's uneasy, awkward. He crosses his arms.

"You are," Gibbs confirms. "Sleeping with her."

"You think it's a bad idea?" Tony's question is tense, tight.

This is a familiar conversation. They've been here before. Except these days, Tony's not as afraid of Gibbs. These days, he's numb. Lost in a maze. Everywhere he turns is the wrong answer. Keeps bumping into walls.

Gibbs smiles, shrugs, but Tony knows him so well. He knows the man is pissed.

"So DiNozzo," Gibbs says now. "Must. Be. Nice."

Tony swallows, looks on nervously. The boss is acting weird. It's creeping him out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **I cannot for the life of me figure out how old Tony is.

**Must Be Nice  
by K9 LASKO**

III.

Abby's brother is willful and insistent. They spend the night at Casa de Gibbs. He calls Gibbs Leroy and wraps him in a hug. There's no doubt that Abby and Kyle are two of a kind.

He sits with Kyle. They drink good beer and talk. It's the most the older man has said in weeks, months, maybe even years. Nothing too deep. Kyle comes with no baggage, despite what Abby may have feared. While she sleeps the sleep of the dead, Kyle smiles and laughs, suggests that Gibbs get a dog. Gibbs says he'll think about it. He's always liked Saint Bernards.

At midnight, they all stumble to bed. Abby wakes for a minute. She has no words of thanks for Gibbs. They've known each other for years. It's de facto. They promise to talk over coffee in the morning.

Nothing too deep.

Things weren't okay, but at least they were getting better.

* * *

It's true that Midge didn't like DiNozzo. But it's also true that she didn't like many of the men at NCIS.

This amuses McGee.

"She'd like me if I was a woman," Tony assures himself.

"I don't know," McGee takes a jab. "I'm pretty sure the female-you would be just as annoying."

Tony snorts. Ziva laughs.

Midge liked McGee. Everybody likes McGee, and rightly so.

* * *

At midnight, McGee is awake. He's staring at his typewriter.

Jethro sleeps nearby, sprawled out like a rug on the wood floor. His paws twitch, soft _woofs_ escape. The German shepherd dreams of chasing bad guys. Of lunging and wrapping his jaws around bare flesh.

McGee is mentally stable, considering everything. So the doctor said. He regularly calls his sister, his grandmother, but never his father. He loves his work, despite having DiNozzo around.

Yet still, he doesn't sleep. If he sleeps, he might miss something.

McGee sighs and lets his chin rest in his palm. He really wanted a different color of paint. What _was_ up with Vance?

* * *

In the basement, Tony fights for words. Gibbs looks relaxed, but looks are deceiving. Tony can tell. Beneath the surface, the man is troubled.

"I don't-" he tries. "I guess I don't know what I'm doing."

"The hell you don't," Gibbs growls immediately.

Tony huffs, looks away, rubs a hand across his face. "I don't. Really."

"Rule 12." Gibbs is looking at Tony expectantly now.

The man has barely given Tony the time of day lately. But now he chooses to strike. Chooses to impose that same bullshit rule Tony had spent years agonizing over. Chooses to impose it during the one time Tony has specifically sought him out. Not during work or duty. But because Tony needed him. Needed somebody that wasn't himself. Or Ziva.

Fuck this.

"Yeah, well-" Tony stops himself. Stops his mouth before he says something like, "yeah well, Rule 12 can go to hell and so can you." Or "yeah well, look how that's worked out for you, you shining example of human kind."

Tony has to stop because he can't say these things. He loves his boss too much. Gibbs has his rules; that's his thing. He'll respect that, tolerate it.

"Yeah well what?" Gibbs spits. The smile from before is gone. "This time, it's not the same as Barrett. Ziva is on the team."

"Gee. I hadn't noticed," Tony shoots back.

Gibbs suddenly stands. The chair scrapes against concrete. Nearly upsets the jar of bourbon. Raises his hand like he's going to throw the piece of wood at Tony's head.

It's sudden and unpredicted. Tony flinches. He raises his hands in front of his face, on reflex.

But Gibbs is already spinning around, his back to Tony. He forcefully throws the piece of wood across the room.

Tony has already found his feet. Has already fled upstairs.

Tony is long gone by the time Gibbs overcomes this sudden spasm of anger. He sits back on the chair, throws back the rest of the bourbon, and holds his head in his hands.

* * *

Ziva knows something is wrong because Tony is quiet. He's lying under the blankets, spread on her bed like a dead carp. He stares at the wall, blinks occasionally.

She brings him a hot cup of tea and sits on the edge of the bed. She leans over, brushes her hand over his forehead, lets the pad of her thumb circle his temple.

"I'm not okay," Tony suddenly mumbles.

"I know," is all she can think to say.

She leaves him alone that night. Sleeps on the couch. Tosses and turns.

* * *

Dr. Donald Mallard is recalcitrant. The heart attack has left him bitter and moody. His temper flares often, like phosphorous on a match. The frustration burns fast and hot. Not even Tony can pry a chuckle from his ailing chest.

He's lashed out at Palmer, at Gibbs, at the janitor, even. He doesn't want charity. Doesn't want sympathy. He wants to be in charge again. Wants to do his job again.

In anger, he thinks he might be at his end. The sun has set, leaving only the gloaming.

* * *

Tony breaks it off with Ziva over pancakes on a Sunday morning at Denny's. Says he won't come over anymore. She can re-claim her bed.

She reaches across the table, pats his hand.

"Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe we weren't thinking clearly, you know, after the elevator," he says, resigned.

Ziva smiles. "Tony. It is okay."

It's not messy. It's not awkward. They fight over the butter pads. Tony monopolizes the syrup.

It's like nothing has even changed.

* * *

Tony is almost 45 years old. He's never been married. No kids. No pets. No debt. Never owned a home.

He's never been in a romantic relationship for longer than five years. Engaged once, dumped twice. He kisses and tells.

He loved his mother and his sea monkeys. He's been to college. Joined a fraternity.

He has many acquaintances, but few close friends. He talks non-stop without saying much at all. Loves to eat, but hates to cook. Never met a cookie he didn't like.

His strengths lie in his weaknesses.

Tony flirts at the office with whoever catches his eye. Ziva rolls her eyes, joins forces with McGee. It takes several failed attempts for him to realize that at this age, he's all played out in that department.

He's always been a slow learner.

* * *

At work, Gibbs barely looks at Tony and Tony barely looks at him. If they do catch each other's glances, they're full of heat.

They've hit yet another rough patch, Tony and Gibbs.

It's not about what's nice anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:  
**- In this chapter, McGee uses the ten code 10-8, which means - in my department - either "on duty" or "fled/left the scene." As far as I know, federal agents don't typically use codes or signals. Ten codes are tricky because they tend to differ from agency to agency.  
- There will be one more chapter after this. I promise a not-so-depressing ending. (:  
- Thank you for the reviews! Also thanks to those who gave answers about Tony's age.

**Warning! **Swearing, adult themes and potentially graphic imagery. Nothing too terrible.

**Must Be Nice  
by K9LASKO**

****IV.

Once.

The number of times Abby mentions the bombing without cringing and hiding under a desk.

The number of times Gibbs buys a bottle of Jim Beam at the Food Lion; the rest are gifts or stowaways found in the cupboard above the refrigerator.

The number of times Ducky says crumpet on a Thursday morning; also the number of times he eats one on a Friday morning.

The number of times Palmer gets lost while driving somewhere he's been before.

The number of times Ziva touches Tony since that Sunday morning.

The number of times Tim picks up the phone to call Abby; also the number of times he doesn't.

* * *

The team gets a three-day weekend.

Tony takes himself on a trip to the ocean. Treats himself to a cheap hotel room. Buys himself middle-shelf booze, charges it to his American Express. Just like his backup pistol, he doesn't leave home without it.

He meets up with a buddy from college. Phil. He says he's here on business. He's married now. Bought themselves a nice little three-bedroom house on one acre in Akron. Kid on the way. Her name is April; she's a nurse.

Phil asks about Wendy. Asks how the wedding went. He's sorry he couldn't make it. Work and all. Fan-fucking-tastic. Seems Phil missed the memo. Several memos.

_It's been **years**, for fuck's sake._

After that, things are awkward. Tony gets himself stone-pissed drunk. He hits on co-eds who are half his age. He uses every trick in his book, a few editions out of date.

He ends up with somebody, in a restroom with an overhead light that's not quite committed to being on or off. They cram themselves against the tile, in between the row of sinks and the blow dryer. It's sloppy and it's completely above the waist. They're both miserably drunk.

* * *

On the good days, Tim takes Jethro to the dog park. Only when it's empty, only when he can unclip the leash and let the animal run.

He tosses an old tennis ball with a Chuck-It launcher. Breeze whistles past his ears. Watches in silence as black and tan fur sprints across the dying grass.

Free, like he's flying.

Jethro brings it back. Waits patiently for another.

If life were as simple as this nobody would know what to do with themselves.

The sun gets hot. Scorches the Earth. The dog seeks the shade. Flops down on his side like he's been shot. Tim pulls out his notepad and writes.

Writes what he thinks and feels

Writes what he should have thought and felt.

He scribbles a scene starring Agent Tommy. He's on a boat. Tibbs' boat maybe. The sails are taught in the wind. The sun's shining in his face; he squints. The breeze messes up his hair. Tommy is smiling, eyes closed. He's happy.

And then the boat erupts into a plume of brilliant red and orange. A macabre bouquet of fire.

Tim jerks awake. He's fallen asleep on the bench, like someone dispossessed.

Jethro watches him, tennis ball held firmly between white fangs. He judges.

* * *

She wonders how long it has taken them to get to this point. It's a journey, a challenge, twisting and harsh. It has no beginning, and apparently no end. She knows she's losing. Knows somewhere, somehow, they both lost their way.

But if she is nothing else, she is at least stubborn. It is better to leave more breadcrumbs than give up. They will find their way back.

Ziva has already made the toughest decision.

She will wait for him.

* * *

Post-bombing, Gibbs is like a tiger.

Post-basement, Gibbs is like a tiger with its tail on fire.

He's sour like curdling milk. He reserves patience for nobody and nothing.

He knows - without even saying a single damn word - he's wounded Tony in a way no one else can. He knows that it is visceral and it is cruel. But isn't that life? His closest agent is also the easiest target. The most willing target. And why not? Tony weathers everything with tail-wagging aplomb.

Gibbs justifies his own actions and reactions while he scowls at a pair of tire tracks heading west on an unpaved road. Nothing but a dirt track bordering a scum-covered retention pond. There's a body in there, somewhere. He doesn't need to see it to _see_ it. He can imagine bloating skin and twisting limbs. Eyes open in the murk.

McGee stands beside him, shoulders nearly touching. Holds the Nikon close to his chest. His finger toys with the shutter release. He's nervous. He says, "Looks like the subject took a 10-8, boss."

Gibbs looks like he just sucked on a lemon. Cop speak coming from the most unlikely source. "Ya learn that from DiNozzo, McGee?"

McGee keeps his mouth shut after that.

* * *

Tony wakes up in an aching heap. It takes him a while to recognize the hotel room. The garish bedspread. The generic artwork. The smoke-stained black-out curtains. He moans, stretches out throbbing limbs. And then he's up and crawling, dragging his rumpled body to the dresser.

He vomits a whole wedding party's worth of half-digested booze in the ice bucket. Dry heaves until his vision is fringed with gray.

Grabs five tablets of store-brand Ibuprofen. Washes them down with the briny remains of a cocktail. Gags but keeps it down.

Somebody has been kind enough to leave his belongings in one spot on the dresser. His faded leather wallet. His keys. The room's key card. There's also a note. Reads: "You need help. Take care, Phil." With it is a business card. Alcoholics Anonymous. You are not alone.

Fuck that. And fuck Phil, too. He's not an alcoholic. He's just stressed. Frustrated. Isolated. Miserable. He doesn't need Phil for a good solid weekend going stag.

After all, misery doesn't like company.

Tony stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. Listens to the buzzing of the overhead light. He gingerly touches the blotchy spots on his neck. He doesn't like what he sees.

He takes a lukewarm shower. Rubs away guilt and gritty sweat with a bar of cheap soap, economy scented. He touches himself lazily. Lets his forehead rest against the shower wall. He feels like he has a brick wedged in his gut. A solid brick of grief and shame that's been weighing him down for months.

He lies on the bed for hours. Stares at the speckled plaster. He knows he's a coward and a dumbfuck. "Yeah. It was nice," he murmurs to no one but the cockroach under the bed.

Half-past seven, the sun dipping into the Atlantic, Tony packs his bags and starts the long drive back home.

* * *

Ziva finds Gibbs exactly where he ought to be. He's dressed in faded jeans and a t-shirt. He doesn't look up from the task he's set for himself.

She leans against the doorframe at the bottom of the stairs. Watches as the man fits together a low wooden table. A coffee table maybe. It's been made with unfaltering precision. The notches fit into the grooves snugly.

Gibbs doesn't look like he's going to bother with any hello's. Ziva is of the same mindset. She says, "We need to talk."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:  
**- "10-26" or just simply "26" (where I'm coming from) means "message received." When you say "I'm 26," that means you understand.  
- To the anon reviewer who posted about Tony being an abuse victim and Ziva being the abuser... Huh? And that's 54 on the TIVA warning because this story isn't 100% grade-A Tiva. Life is more complicated than that.  
- Oh and DiNozzo/Dorneget is totally my new ship. (; Seriously, why aren't there more stories?

**Must Be Nice  
by K9LASKO**

V.

Back then, he moved from partner to partner like sex itself was going out of style. Nothing but bumping and licking and grinding in strange beds, under strange sheets, with even stranger strangers. Giving. Taking. The more giving, the better. No attachment. All the happiness middle-shelf liquor could buy.

Back then, he wasn't one for longevity - _relationship_ longevity. He liked intensity. Great explosions of attraction, lust, and temporary insanity-smoldering down to cold ash come daybreak. Distant. Indifferent. Detached.

Back then, who cared? Back then all he wanted was some action. Hot and fast and real. He'd done longevity before. Back _before_ then. Familiarity bred contempt, and disappointment. Expectations or lack thereof.

Now, it is like the tank has run dry. Like a great lake, emptied by the sun and days' long droughts. Parched and cracked. Too many years. Enough night stands to stock an Ikea. The supply of mindless passion - once driven by youth and raw oysters and good looks - had been usurped by something lost and confused. Something complex and needy.

Now, he goes out with McGee. McSteadyEddy, McCourteous, who obfuscates his own sexuality. Who blushes on occasion. Dignified and choosy. Drunk or sober. Tim never samples the goods, never takes what's not his; if he's in, he's in. Somebody raised Tim right, but they skipped over Tony.

So now, they work as a dynamic McDuo. Tony meets and greets. Tim controls the liquor.

Tim is more than just a coworker, more than just a friend; he's like a sponsor, a devoted little brother who asks for little but offers what he can.

They grow abnormally close. They start _talking_; they share _things._ Tony DiNozzo, the archetypical prankster, is not only miserable, but lonely, too. McGee worries because that is what McGee's are good at.

* * *

Abby goes out with somebody. It's not McGee.

A week later she's giving him a "tour" of NCIS. They kiss in the elevator.

Gibbs tells them both to scram. But he says it with a smile while McGee frowns behind his computer and Tony folds a lopsided paper airplane and Ziva shouts Hebrew into the phone.

"Are you... McJealous?" Tony smirks.

McGee nearly gets an eyeball taken out by the poorly engineered plane.

Gibbs isn't smiling anymore. "I'm going to McKick your ass if you don't quit goofing around, DiNozzo."

Everybody looks at Gibbs because they must all be crazy if they think their team leader has just uttered a McIsm. But he has.

"I need coffee." Gibbs sweeps away from his desk. "And I'm out of staples."

Tony watches him go, wary and guarded. He tries to think where they'd gone wrong with each other, when things had changed, yet again. Wonders when that second B morphed from plain old "bastard" to full on "bully," "brute," "beast." Was it the bomb? Did he hit his head again? Forget that they weren't enemies again?

He lets out a laugh, a bit breathy and nervous. "Wow, who pissed in his Wheaties?"

Ziva makes a face. "That is disgusting."

By 1800 hours, they are over it.

* * *

Ned Dorneget still hopes for a spot on Gibbs' team. He is a probationary agent; he has to play his cards right, or else he'll be stuck down in evidence forever. He has an absentee trainer who was more interested in the pay differential than the actual training. She makes an appearance sometimes. She observes and chats and trades barbs with her coworker friends. Usually, they communicate with nothing more than a diverse selection of swear words. She always makes sure to give Dorneget a good review.

"You wanna work for Gibbs, huh?" she jokes. "Braver than I, kid."

So he spends as much time as he can on the third floor. Runs errands, answers phones, fights with the CJIS teletype station. Sometimes he runs into McGee.

He's sitting in the third floor break room, munching on a white bread sandwich with the crusts cut off. By the time the spicy mustard starts singeing his sinuses, arguing erupts from the back hallway. It's hushed and heated and he recognizes both of the voices. Dorneget chews a little slower while he strains to pick up the words. It's not eavesdropping; it's surveillance.

"Where were you this whole weekend?"

"Went on a little vacay, Zee-vah. Should try it sometime. Look at this tan."

"What tan? You are all pale and sweaty."

"Yeah well, the SPF 80 may have been a bit excessive, but-"

"This is not a joke, Tony. Where _were_ you?"

"I told you."

"Are you drunk?"

"What?"

"Are you drunk? Right now?"

At this point, Dorneget has stopped chewing completely. He forgets to swallow, lets the bite of sandwich congeal to the sides of his mouth. The rest of it is hanging limply from his hands, falling apart onto his brown paper lunch bag. Shit is getting _real_.

There is laughing now, from Tony. Nervous, "you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me" laughter. On the cusp of frantic giggling.

"This is not funny, Tony. You have to go home."

"I'm _not_ drunk," he hisses. "C'mon."

"Then why do you smell like a cocktail bar?"

"Just residual, I guess."

"And you have come into work. _Work_, Tony. We rely on _you_. You are not the man I know right now."

"Yeah? Well, who am I then?"

"A caricature of yourself. I want to help you, but you have to help yourself, too."

Both of their voices drop away. They don't part amicably, but at least it hasn't come to blows.

Tony steps into the break room just as a half-chewed on piece of ham drops from Dorneget's sandwich with a wet _pfft_. Tony does look rough, shirt wrinkled and face blotchy and hair sticking up in parts. His sleeves are rolled up and he's got his gun holstered to his belt. He's got some love handles that look very grab-able.

Dorneget has always been enamored with this man, so he feigns nonchalance even while he watches Tony's ass as he none-too-gently slaps the snack machine's glass.

A candy bar is thrown into his lap. Dorneget blinks.

"You tell anyone about this, I'll shoot you." Tony isn't kidding.

* * *

She says, "We need to talk."

He keeps his eyes on the wood. Then asks without any inflection of a real question. "About what, Ziva."

"About the rules." She has her arms crossed. Her face is neutral.

He doesn't pause. "My team, my rules," he parrots an answer he remembers giving DiNozzo once before.

"This is Tony's team as much as it is yours, Gibbs."

"Not his team," the older man counters easily. He is so set in this ways and stubborn as hell. He nudges another piece of wood into place, taps it gently with a hammer.

"Yes, it is." Ziva is firm. She has come here with a goal in mind, and she isn't one for giving up.

Finally he stops what he is doing and looks up. He has a look of vague annoyance on his face. "DiNozzo tell you to come here? To talk to me?"

"No."

Gibbs tries to find the lie, but it's not there.

"I need to know why you have been treating him this way."

The man snorts, his body stiffens. He's indignant and self-righteous. "You bringing this up because you're sleeping with him?"

"No, I am bringing it up because I am his friend." Her words are vehement and harsh. "I am worried. We are all worried."

"About what?" Gibbs spits.

"He is depressed."

"And that's our problem how?"

Ziva takes a step forward. Steps right up to the man she admires and trusts so implicitly. She has never been afraid to speak her mind, and now is no different. "What is your problem, Gibbs? How can you be so unfeeling?"

"I know how to handle DiNozzo," he snaps in return, pushing right back at her. "He has his ups and downs. You let him ride it out. Hands off. He hasn't burned out yet." He grabs another piece of wood and all but slams it into place. "You wanna get _involved_ with him, Ziva? That's your own damn problem. But don't come to me when it all goes south."

"That is how you think it will be?"

"Relationships with coworkers. Bad idea. Rule number 12."

"Tony is different."

"No," Gibbs is adamant. "He isn't."

Ziva stays quiet. She thinks about retreating, taking two steps back. But she remembers what she came here for, and it wasn't to get sucked into Gibbs' warped worldview.

She swallows, bites the inside of her cheek. "He follows your rules because he respects you. You need to start acting like you deserve it." She feels a sudden cold wrap around her middle. But as she leaves him there - alone in that basement with nothing but pieces of wood to keep him company - she feels it begin to warm.

Because she knows she's done right by her friend.

* * *

Tony doesn't know how he ends up in the elevator. Alone. With Gibbs. The trip from the third floor to the basement lasts approximately twenty seconds, provided it doesn't stop along the way. That is long enough to be killed by an irate boss. Long enough to be bashed several times against the metal walls. Long enough to be strangled or shot or stabbed or dismembered.

He is shitting bricks as the elevator chimes and the doors slide closed. After the bomb, it had taken him a while to accept the elevator. Now he feels like he might have a panic attack all over again. Tony's stomach lurches as the car begins its descent.

But then Gibbs is leaning over and he's punching the emergency stop button.

Oh god. Why?

Tony swallows and stares at the closed doors.

Gibbs doesn't speak. He just reaches out a hand and places it on Tony's arm, just below the shoulder. He squeezes twice.

Tony keeps his eyes on the doors, although he feels himself breathe out long and slow. Like he's been relieved of a load of anvils.

"It was nice," Gibbs says. "Having someone to talk to." He pauses. "For whatever it's worth.

"She's not around anymore is she, boss." It's not a question. He's already figured out that Dr. Ryan had gone the way of many. She'd left.

"Nope. But I got better people to talk to, anyway."

Tony stays quiet.

It's closer than both of them will ever get to an apology.

"You 26?" Gibbs asks.

"Yeah," Tony nods. "Yeah I am."

* * *

"You seem happier," McGee blurts while they waste another afternoon playing video games.

"Doing the best I can," Tony smiles. "For a DiNozzo."


End file.
